


Sandbox

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imladris has magic in many places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandbox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [book of nicodemus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=book+of+nicodemus).



There was a sandbox in the garden. It was an elevated stone platform with raised edges to keep the sand in.

The sand had been brought from Across The Sea.

The sand was white. There might have been seashells, tiny ones, mixed in with it. The sand glittered silver in the sunlight and silver in the moonlight, and it even glittered silver when there was very little light at all.

The sandbox stood in the heart of the garden, as wide as the length of two men laid end to end, and no deeper than a handspan.

It was common practice for passing Elves to run their hands through the fine grains, soaking up some energy of their homeland. Children would jump up to sit along the edge of it and make patterns and words and drawings with their fingers. On occasion, rituals were held there. Some handfastings had been performed there, the couple standing barefoot in the sand of a country they had never seen.

Erestor avoided the sandbox.

At first, Glorfindel had thought it was the garden in general. The flowers were too cheerful, perhaps, for Erestor to withstand them for any length of time. Glorfindel also theorized that Erestor could only survive a certain length of exposure to fresh air before he would implode.

But then Glorfindel had seen the Counselor sit within the entrance to the garden, by the roses, for no less than two hours, reading.

So much for the flower theory.

Glorfindel had to admit he liked the gardens. There was some sort of a macho expectancy among the guards of Imladris, but Glorfindel’s ideals had been ingrained too long ago for modern sensibilities to corrupt him. He liked flowers and he didn’t care what anyone said about it.

And he loved the sandbox. There were lots of theories about the sandbox: that a wounded Elf laid upon the sand would heal miraculously (that had been proved false), that dispirited persons who hung about it would gain positive energy (definitely true), and that those who touched it remained lucky for the next twenty-four hours (debatable). And no one EVER took sand from the box. You’d be cursed if you did.

And there were others. But the one that intrigued Glorfindel was this:

Whosoever should touch the homeland Sand  
Can not long in Dishonesty stand.  
Only Gospel may fall from his tongue,  
Though the deepest Truths be yet unsung.

He remembered a very young Arwen sitting on the rim, drawing a horse in the smooth-grained surface, telling him plainly, “Look. See? If you’re touching the sand of Valinor, you can’t lie.”

Glorfindel had tried everything imaginable to lead Erestor to the sandbox.

No doing.

Erestor wouldn’t come within sight of the thing.

Glorfindel would catch Erestor looking at him from beneath the thick film of black eyelashes. He would notice Erestor walking closer to him than was strictly necessary. He would hear Erestor sigh at odd moments. He would see Erestor walk into walls when he wasn’t paying proper attention. He would venture a guess that Erestor cared more for him than the Counselor let on. And Glorfindel had it stuck in his head that he needed irrefutable proof.

Why a normal (strained, stuttering, fearful, inelegant) declaration wouldn’t be enough he didn’t know. He yearned for the truth of the Valar to inhabit Erestor’s very words.

“Erestor. Will you come to the sandbox with me?”

Mistrustful look. “Why?”

“Because . . . I’d like you to?”

“No.”

“Because . . . I need you to.”

Cautious gaze. “All right.”

Erestor walked so close beside him they could have held hands.

Glorfindel found that he was nervous. Heart rate? Too fast. Skin? Too hot, too sweaty. Mind? A MISERABLE WRECK.

Erestor was the epitome of calm.

They stood before the sandbox. It glittered silver in the moonlight.

Examining the Counselor, Glorfindel was shocked to see a great sadness there in the face he knew so well. “What’s the matter, Er’estel?” he teased.

Ignoring him, Erestor demanded, “Why are we here?”

Glorfindel approached to sit on the stone rim. The sand was rippled from drawing fingers and a child’s footprints. He smoothed out a flat plane with the palm of his strong hand. With a finger, he began to draw. “They say a lot of things about this sand. I wonder if even half of it is true.”

No comment.

He continued, “But there’s magic in it. I know there is. I can feel it.” He finished his drawing: a simple version of his golden crest. He looked at Erestor. “Can’t you?”

A whisper. “I feel it.”

“Won’t you come sit with me?”

As though drawn by a leash, Erestor ghosted forward on padding feet to perch restlessly on the stone rim. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I like it here. It’s peaceful.”

“It’s sad.”

Glorfindel agreed. “Maybe. Sad and peaceful.” He sighed and stood. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. I shouldn’t have had you come here.”

Erestor looked up at him. “It’s alright. I know why you did.”

“You-- what? You do?”

“You’re as transparent as the moonlight, Glorfindel. And I love you, too.”

“You-- what? You do?”

Half of Erestor’s mouth turned up into a grin. “Yes.” He looked away, back to the sand. His pale hand hovered over the surface, before diving into the white grains of home. He came up with a handful of the stuff and let it trickle like time through his fingers. “Not so bad, really,” he muttered, repeating the gesture.

“I do love you, Erestor.”

“Yes, I know.” The dark eyes flashed flirtatiously at him. “Come back here.” He patted the place Glorfindel had vacated.

Nervously, aware of the sudden realness of his confession, Glorfindel shuffled back and plopped down. His blue eyes were huge.

Erestor pressed a hand against his chest “What?--” until the warrior’s back was pressed along the white sand, and his head was cradled in it, and his gold hair fanned out against it. Energy speared through him.

Erestor leaned over him, his hands disappearing into the sand at either side, burrowing beneath Glorfindel’s back.

Power looped through them.

Erestor crawled into the sandbox, his robes snaking a pattern into the sand. He coaxed Glorfindel backward.

Without any effort, barely moving, Glorfindel found himself reclined entirely along the surging sand, his legs no longer hanging over the edge. He could have sworn the sand moved him. “I--”

“Shh…”

Erestor kissed him. And such a kiss. It seemed to unfold as a new bloom, to spiral as a song. Heat, friction, love, passion, sex, moan, wet, laugh, clutch.

Glorfindel felt consumed. Erestor spread out atop him, grinding against him, taking over him, as the sand wriggled all beneath him, held him still, and supported him. Like a cloud with a thousand fingers.

Suddenly, Glorfindel surged forward, fighting for control of the kiss, arms clamping about Erestor, thrusting back up against him with diabolic fervor.

Messily noisily suddenly they came, more or less together.

The sand was still.

= = = = =

The End


End file.
